


I'm Sorry, John

by The_Science_of_Deduction_SH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture., Angst., Fluff., Frightening themes throughout., Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is in Pain., Mentions of Torture., Physical Torture., Psychological Torture., Sherlock can't escape., Strong feelings of Hopelessness., Terror.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Science_of_Deduction_SH/pseuds/The_Science_of_Deduction_SH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months after TEH, John and Sherlock are still not speaking about the incident, closed off from the world and from each other. But when a certain consulting criminal crawls back into their lives once more, the bonds of friendship are tested and John has time to reflect. Meanwhile, psychological and physical torment threaten to consume the detective in a nightmarish world of his own creation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Sorry, John

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock, BBC, or any of the characters, etc. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, are the real creators of the show. All this work is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit or gain. Feel free to make lots of fan art! Enjoy!

I don't own Sherlock, BBC, or any of the characters, etc. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, are the real creators of the show. All this work is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit or gain. Enjoy! 

 

A few months after TEH, John and Sherlock are still not speaking about the incident, closed off from the world and from each other. But when a certain consulting criminal injects Sherlock with a hallucinatory drug, the bonds of friendship are tested and John has time to reflect on his himself and his life choices. Meanwhile, psychological and physical torment threaten to consume the detective in a nightmarish world of his own creation.  

 

An icy chill filled the air as Sherlock made his way to the edge. Painful words repeat over and over, tormenting his mind; crushing it like the petals of a tender rose trodden underfoot. 

 

No! Sherlock. 

 

No! Sherlock. 

 

The detective stepped onto the edge, eyeing the tiny cars down below him, causing a mixture of fear and sadness to shiver up his spine. He swallowed hard, having to repeat the last line in a long choreographed play. A magic trick of epic proportions. His throat was tight as he spoke. "Goodbye, John." 

 

"Go ahead Sherlock, jump."  

 

Sherlock whipped around on the narrow ledge expecting to find Moriarty standing there, right as rain with remnants of blood sticking to his head and a coy smile plastered to his lips. But there was nothing there as he turned, which caused him to question himself as he put away his phone into his coat pocket and jumped off the ledge and onto the rooftop.  

 

His calculating eyes searched the vicinity, but after a few minutes, the detective chalked the incident up to an active imagination briefly unhinged and turned back around towards the edge. 

 

"Don't think you can fool me, Sherlock." 

 

A blond haired man dressed in an army uniform, suddenly appeared in front of him, startling him a bit. His comforting brown eyes seemed familiar, along with a scar on his right hand and special scent. 

 

"John!" 

 

Sherlock was about to embrace him, but something was terribly wrong. His features suddenly turned from the qualities of the kind loving army doctor he once knew to an evil imposter with eyes filled with cruelty. A wicked smile suddenly appeared on his lips, causing Sherlock to cringe and step back.  

 

As he was doing so, his heel struck the ledge putting him off kilter, though Sherlock regained his balance quickly. It couldn't be a trick of Moriarty's, Sherlock contemplated to himself, eyeing the lifeless body on the ground in a grey Westwood suit. 

 

"Oh I assure you, I'm very real, Sherlock." 

 

He even had the same lilt in his voice as he pronounced his name. Whoever this imposter was, he had done his homework. Sherlock continued to contemplate, hoping to find reason for error, something that linked him towards disbelieve in his theories. 

 

"I should have known you were a fake, you obviously committed those crimes yourself. The world will see you as you truly are, a fake and a liar," John sneered. "That deduction of my phone was all rehearsed wasn't it? I can't believe you would do such a thing!" 

 

Sherlock leaned back from the blasting John, disappointed. "I don't believe you. You're not John, so who are you?"  

 

"If I'm not John? then why did I take the gun away from you that you were using to shoot at a smiley face on the wall? And why did you scare me in the lab, at Baskerville?" John smirked smugly, folding his arms in victory. 

 

"Oh, you're good I give you that, but you've made a mistake. The John I know would never call me a fake. He has faith in me," Sherlock replied, straightening and composing himself. 

 

This seemed to have an effect, as John then let his arms drop to his sides. "If you say so…. Why would you believe me, I'm just your friend, the only friend you have who has stuck by you through thick and thin and taken all the wraps for you." The army doctor walked back, leaning on the entrance defeated. 

 

"John?" Sherlock called back in wonder. Wait, why did he do that? This wasn't his real John speaking, Sherlock had proved that.... Didn't he? Sherlock closed his eyes, accessing his short-term memory, but all there was inside was the name _John_ scribbled on the inside of his Mind Palace. Impossible. His Palace was impenetrable to intruders. 

 

Perhaps he did it himself?  

 

"Oh, you believe me now? Typical," John muttered, his saddened gaze projected downward. 

 

Sherlock felt a pang in his chest as he beheld him. "John, I have to do this or you'll die. …. I don't want to… believe me I don't." Sherlock spoke fervently, thinking about the probable two years of heartbreak that John would have to endure, the torture at the hands of Moriarty's network, even the pain of the broken arm that he would have to endure upon impact of the pavement was nothing compared to the gut-wrenching pain he would go through leaving John alone.  

 

 _There wasn't any pain in existence that was worse than leaving John, his John._  

 

Sherlock realized his vision was suddenly blurry and he wiped away the welling tears from his eyes, looking up to see John's broken expression, which only served to create more tears which he wiped away swiftly, uncomfortable with his barriers down.  

 

"I know," John said quietly. "I just wish you told me." The army doctor leant down and rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, after which he was strongly embraced by the detective.  

 

"I know…" 

 

Sherlock soon became aware that he was standing and John was slowly walking them backwards.  

 

"John, the ledge is right behind us, stop walking or we'll both fall," Sherlock warned jokingly, a clipped laugh escaping.  

 

But it didn't end there and Sherlock's features hardened knowingly as John kept walking them. In the next moments, Sherlock tried to struggle out of his grip, punching and kicking when nothing else worked. But all John did was grasp tighter, enough to bruise. 

 

Finally, seeing his only way of escape, Sherlock wriggled down and out of the loop of arms holding him, his breath forming clouds of mist in the chilled air with the effort.  Whoever, whatever this thing was, had every ounce of John's strength.  

 

There were hands. They were grasping his neck. No, squeezing his neck with brute force crushing his windpipe. His oxygen was almost depleted and his lungs burned. His body felt numb and black shafts were ebbing at his vision. Sherlock struggled and fought, but it did nothing only depleted his oxygen further.  

 

A clang of metal. Darkness. 

 

There was slapping. Someone was slapping his face; firmly. Not too hard. Light. Bright light assaulted his vision. 

 

"Sherlock?" 

 

His eyes adjusted and rested in horror upon John, murdering fake-John standing over him. "Get away from me!" Sherlock shouted, scrambling away. 

 

"Sherlock! Sherlock. It's me. Are you alright? that man was keeping me prisoner, but I escaped." John squeezed his hand reassuringly. 

 

Sherlock's hand slightly shivered in the army doctors hold as he looked him over skeptically. Same brown eyes, same scars from the war, same clothes down to the last familiar thread, same scent. There was only one thing to test now. Sherlock made a fist, reeled his hand back and punched John in the face. 

 

John let out a small hiss of pain, but was other wise unfazed by the punch. He glared softly at Sherlock. "Why did you do that?" 

 

Sherlock exhaled in relief. This was his _real_ John. "That man. He looked exactly like you down to the last feature, but my blows did nothing whatsoever to him. I had to test my theory." 

 

John scoffed. "Well could you at least warn me next time," John complained, rubbing his cheek.  

 

"John, do you know his name? The man who kidnapped you?" Sherlock asked. 

 

"No I don't, he did a cloning experiment on me to trick you." John paused. "But that's not important.  All that matters now, is that I'm free … and with you." John was about to give Sherlock a friendly embrace, before Sherlock held out his hand, stopping him. 

 

"If it's alright with you, I'm just not ready to hug you yet," Sherlock said, quietly.  

 

John moved his waiting arms down, onto his lap. "I understand. When you're ready." The army doctor stood up. "So when are you going to jump?" 

 

Sherlock's breath caught. 

 

John looked him in the eye. "I'm an army man. I know how to recognize a snipper target."  

 

Sherlock exhaled and stood up as well, though he couldn't help but remember this would be the last time for many years that he would see those brown eyes and strong hands again. No more jumpers. No more John. This was going to be harder than he initially thought. 

 

John sensed his distress and walked over to him, eyeing him face to face. "I'll be alright, Sherlock. You just focus on getting back to me; us, when you get down there." His vision moved to the death-drop. 

 

"Of course, John. I'll go as fast as I can," Sherlock spoke, emotion roughing up his deep baritone. 

 

John inhaled through his nose, then cleared his throat. 

 

 "Would it be too much to hug you one last time?... I mean I know you're not quite ready, but I need to… feel you one last time. …. You know, if it's not too much trouble?" 

 

Sherlock stared at him; watery smokey eyes, meeting olive green ones. "No, John. Of course not."  

 

Now it was John's turn to embrace him. And it was one raw with emotion and wavering strength on both their parts. Holding each other close, squeezing jumpers and Belstaff coats, purposefully burying their faces in each others shoulders to smell their scents one last time. Sherlock would always smell like fresh morning dew with a hint of coffee and violin resin. John would always smell like Honey with a hint of Disinfectant and Tea. They remembered the good laugh they once had when Sherlock had told John he smelled of it, though they were both surprised why the three scents mingled so well. You'd think it would smell disgusting, like sweet bleach with a little spice, but it smelled like life and renewed the detective whenever John was nearby; A very fitting scent for a doctor. 

 

When John had told Sherlock of his smell one time, it didn't have such a big reaction. Sherlock was accepting of it. After all, his violin was very much a part of him; he played the instrument nearly every day, so it was only natural for its scent to linger on him. The coffee part was either from too many accidental spills, forgetting their was a cup of coffee in his hand while he was in his mind palace, or from the numerous late nights Sherlock would be up solving crimes with a cup of black coffee and two sugars nearby for a quick energy boost. The dew scent was slightly harder to place, that is until John found out Sherlock's morning ritual of lying face down in the wet grass of Russell Square Park, claiming that the scent of it renewed the vibrancy of his brain cells. John had snorted, but went along with it; even lied down next to him before he realized he hated the feeling of being wet.  

 

That's when they both seemed to realize another thing.  

 

Sherlock realized that not only would he never get to say John's name, look into his eyes, see his jumper and eat his strawberry jam and peanut butter sandwiches, but he would have to wait years to smell that Honey and Disinfectant and Tea scent. How were they going to survive this? 

 

John was most certainly reading his mind, his gaze knowing and begrudgingly excepting to what was going to follow next as they separated. 

 

After a few seconds of searching each other's eyes, Sherlock went in and clasped his arms around him once more. Only, something was different this time. John's smell was gone. Not even the honey remained.  

 

His thoughts came to an end as he slightly felt the corners of John's mouth move upward against the rough fabric of his coat. John would never smile at this time. And he always smelled of Honey Disinfectant and Tea. Why couldn't he just have the Real John Watson now? Why was Moriarty doing this? 

 

The detectives pulse raced, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach returning. Icy cold shivers crawled up his spine as he heard small obscene giggles coming from John. 

 

"This isn't real," Sherlock bit out with clenched teeth, feeling his body immobilized by the unnaturally strong arms just as before. 

 

"You got that right." Fake John spoke with an American accent and let go of him.  

 

Sherlock stayed in his place, unmoving. It appeared there was only one way out of this nightmarish scenario. Sherlock closes his eyes in surrender as the fake-John pushes him over the ledge. 

 

Falling. 

 

Falling. 

 

 

Falling. 

 

Why was he still falling. This was supposed to be the moment he would wake up in real-life-John's arms, shivering and shaking as his kind hands rubbed soothing circles on his back.  

 

Falling. 

 

Falling. 

 

If he didn't wake up soon, this was really going to- 

 

Sherlock felt his body slam onto the concrete with a sickening crunch. He cried out in pain as the bone in his arm was snapped in half, though he was briefly put out of pain soon after when his head hit the hard pavement. Concussion.  

* * *

 

"Sherlock, wake up! This isn't real you're having a nightmare." 

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and jolted upright, looking straight ahead at the periodic table poster on his bedroom wall. He was back in 221B. He rotated his shoulder. His arm wasn't broken anymore.  But a shudder shook his body once again. "What do you mean this isn't real? you weren't there, you couldn't possibly know unless…" 

 

The sinking feeling in his stomach is back as the John-like figure grinned cruelly at him.  

 

Not again. 

 

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry I left you." He didn't care that he wasn't speaking to the real John anymore, he was numb with overwhelming feelings of fear and sadness. Sherlock repeats these words over and over as he feels the tip of a riffle touch his skin… 

 

But then, it's moved away.  

 

"What? You think I'm going to make it that easy?" The fake-John then changed to Moriarty.  

 

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry I left you,"  Moriarty mocked in a high-pitched tone.  

 

"No, I'm not finished with you yet." 

 

Sherlock shut his eyes, completely done with watching it anymore. Perhaps his Mind Palace would provide some sanctuary from whatever Moriarty was planning.  

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and lowered himself down to his Palace. It had too. 

 

Bright, yet soft shafts of light streaked through and painted all it touched in smooth reflection. It was comfort as he ran to John's room. Mind Palace John had to be close to the real John right now. He had to be the buffer between the pain— his Escape.  

 

John greeted him at the door, with a gentle smile. "Don't worry, I'll protect you."  He beckoned him inside.  

 

"Course you will," Sherlock smirked and followed his lead. At least it was the closest thing to a real smile Sherlock had seen all those fake-John's produce the entire time, Sherlock thought gratefully as he entered. The substance had apparently not effected this part of his mind. 

  

John's room was filled with the same furniture as real John's. There was a desk pushed into the far right corner of the wall, and his bed was parallel to it; a brown rug on the wood floor between them. Cozy, yet practical. That was John. 

 

"Sandwich?"  

 

Sherlock looked down at the silver tray of pb & j's in the doctors hand. John smiled and materialized a small table, setting the tray of sandwiches on the surface as he sat down; Sherlock following suit. 

 

"Now, eat up, you're too skinny." 

 

Sherlock smirked, but took a bite of the sandwich— pleasantly surprised when he tasted a layer of honey along with the peanut and jelly flavors coating his mouth in pleasant smoothness, contrasting the crunch of the Sourdough perfectly. Sherlock moaned in pleasure as he chewed, barely feeling the slight sting at the back of his mind.  

 

"I take it you're enjoying them," John said with a small giggle, then took a bite himself. 

 

Sherlock hummed in response 

 

"Your sandwiches are amazing, John," Sherlock breathed, before going in for another bite. 

 

"So how did you get in this situation?" 

 

"I have my suspicions I was exposed to a hallucinogenic substance." He was possibly injected with it, seeing how far into his bloodstream it had traveled to produce such lifelike terrors.  

 

"Moriarty is your...." 

 

"Yes, and you also," Sherlock replied stiltedly, pausing as if he was about to say something else.  

 

"John," the detective began. "You remember when I said that heroes don't exist.... I didn't realize at the time how wrong I was. You, John. You are a hero." 

 

John beamed brightly. "As are you." 

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. 

 

"No, don't deny it. You've saved lives with your work, as I have with mine."  

 

Sherlock suddenly grasped his stomach, groaning in agony. "…John!" 

 

 The table and sandwiches disappeared, leaving only two chairs facing each other. "Just breathe, Sherlock. Deep breaths," John instructed gently, his concerned eyes fixed on him. 

 

Sherlock did as instructed never leaving John's cradling gaze for a moment.  

 

He shuddered to think of what Moriarty was doing to his body and was dreading the inevitable pull back to it. Moriarty was trying hard to bring him to full consciousness, he could feel it; he could feel the Palace around him fading. But he had to hold on as long as possible. He had to give John time on the other side to cure him. 

 

The detective took a last breath in and out, his abdomen contracting as the pain slowly began to subside. 

 

"That's it. … steady," John soothed, rubbing the pad of his thumb over his hand. 

 

"John, he's trying to wake me up. What should I do?" Sherlock said, in a small voice. 

 

The army doctor stared into his pleading eyes. "Just focus all your energy on staying here for as long as you can." 

 

"John, I don't want to leave you." He couldn't leave him. John was his tether that shielded him from reality. He wasn't ready to face the pain and the torment that awaited him at the hands of the known Psychopath, not yet; probably not ever. 

 

"I know. But I need you to fight. Use those SERE techniques I taught you." 

 

"Survival. Evasion. Resistance. And Escape," Sherlock repeated with a shaky voice, knowing what was coming next. It was true that the techniques had proven useful on more than one account. He remembered, bemusedly that they both had been surprised that only a handful of people had tried to take them out of the equation, given their reputations. Still, when it was done, the torture was usually executed by some amateur blindly following orders. One such subject even forgot to tie him up. And the knots… let's just say they aren't even worthy to be mentioned. Another just thought tying their hands to the back of the chair would restrain them enough. It was safe to say that they all learned that lesson the hard way-  by a swift kick to the groin. Of course, those incidents ended in such embarrassment that there captors usually just ended up releasing them before, sometimes, even a scratch was inflicted.— Occasionally they got lucky though. 

 

But then, there were other moments. Other captors who weren't idiots and knew the human anatomy with needle-like precision. And, _God!_ Did they regret every sarcastic remark or off cantered reply. These usually sent a knife burrowing into their backs or caused a bucket of icy water to be thrown on them, usually before an electric current was shot into them, causing their toes to curl and their bodies to contort and writhe in agony with each volt from a Cattle Prod their captor sadistically named, Lightning. 

 

The SERE techniques were a God-sent then; making those experiences possible to endure. And they would again…. Sherlock thought, a twinge of hope marring the fear inside him. 

 

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, with a grateful smile. 

 

The army doctor smiled brightly, and as one they stood up and embraced one another. Sherlock taking in the Honey, Disinfectant and Tea smell one last time before they separated, letting it wash over him. 

 

"Give 'em Hell! My friend." 

 

Sherlock watched as John's form slowly disappeared, along with the the two chairs.  

 

He staired up at the ceiling as a fissure began working it's way through it, branching out into a webbed pattern, little pieces of insulation raining down and hitting him on the head. This hurt. Now it really hurt.  

 

There was throbbing. He focused. His head was throbbing. Either a lead pipe or the butt of a gun had struck him hard enough to bruise. No. Wait.  

 

Blood. Metallic smell. His head felt sticky with warm liquid, now his stomach and his head was now spinning from the effort of thinking. Deductions would have to come later, Sherlock thought disappointedly, forcing down the bile that was rising in his throat from the putrid smells and... burned flesh. Yes, that would be the blinding pain that had briefly incapacitated him in his Mind Palace, Sherlock thought bitterly and moved on to a new subject that would give him more relief.  

 

Right now, he knew that his hands were tied to the back of the chair, tightly. No chance of escape there. His legs were in the same predicament. Percentage of a successful escape, almost zero. Percentage of bodily injury if the chair was used as a weapon, 89 percent. Escape, not possible.  

 

"I have to say, I've tried everything short of cutting off a finger to get you to come out and play." 

 

 Sherlock felt a tremor of fear rack his body, but his mask of indifference never wavered as he opened his eyes. They were no longer in his bedroom, but some kind of interrogation room somewhere, complete with a metal door, four white walls and a grey concrete floor. Sherlock spotted Moriarty dressed in his usual expensive Westwood suite and pristine shoes, casually leaning against a metal frame; his arms crossed and a sickly cheerful smile plastered on his lips.  

 

He knew something. Dammit! What had he given away? Sherlock scolded. 

 

"Oh, I see. You've been busy up there haven't you?" He chuckled, moving towards him like a serpent.  

 

That's what he was; a serpent who instigated weaknesses, sometimes creating them for his own blackmail; squeezing his victims until they surrendered to do his dirty-work and disposing of the few that dared to oppose him. Magnussen just found the weaknesses and exploited information based on the 'pressure point' of that person, keeping it locked away in Appledore for future blackmail. He was a Shark who only tore peoples personal lives to shreds when it came time. That was the subtle, yet- at least to Sherlock- obvious difference between Magnussen and Moriarty. 

 

Though when it came down to it, the man who wasn't dead was the one on top of the criminal ladder. Moriarty had more men behind the curtain, waiting loyally for their boss to give them a signal to step in if needed. If Magnussen hadn't most likely blackmailed half his guards, who knows, maybe they would've stepped in and saved their boss.  

 

The Irishman began speaking again. "I know what you're doing. You're cramming your thoughts with other information so I can't read what you're really thinking about." He smirked incredulously."Clever, but I was hoping you'd try another tactic— one that wasn't so transparent." 

 

Sherlock looked away. "I don't expect you to understand." 

 

"Oh, and why is that? Because I don't have a dog I drag around all of London on cases. Well, you'd be right in that variant, but Sebby and I have grown quite close in these past two years, with our in-hiding status and all."  

 

 "That may be, but you don't have someone who cares for you the way John does. You are alone…." 

 

Sherlock's head whipped violently to the side as the criminal's fist pounded into his face. The metallic taste was the only thing that coated his mouth now, just blood, no more honey and jam tastes. Thankfully, though, he had remembered to tense before he was struck, absorbing the blow enough to prevent too much pain. 

 

Sherlock spat up some blood onto the floor, though he kept a small reserve in his mouth despite the acrid taste, for later use. 

 

Moriarty scowled and let go of the edge of the chair, spinning around on his heels toward the door.  

 

Sherlock watched helplessly as he snapped his fingers.  

……

"I don't know, but he has a slight fever… if he doesn't wake up soon-" 

 

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John shouted as Sherlock began to convulse. His fever had long soaked though the sheets and into the mattress and his hair was slick and matted with sweat.  

 

John had long felt sick to his stomach for him. Every convulsion and scream tore at his heart and it was only his military training that prevented him from breaking down and sobbing by his bedside.  

 

But screw Military training. 

 

Screw Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock might have been repelled with such emotions, but Bloody Hell! John was human and human's grieved. They cried when they felt helpless to do anything— for their loved ones. And right now, that's what he felt— for with all his medical training and knowledge, he couldn't seem to save him and reverse the substance that was reverting him to a mere puppet lying on the bed. His body would thrash, arms stretching out until they vibrated from the strain on some occasions; in which the doctor would immediately restrain them. He couldn't see that happen another time or it might honestly break him. 

 

Though, sometimes if an attack wasn't so violent, John could reach out to him with his voice; soft whispers of endearment and encouragement more often than not calmed the detective into submission and he would stop thrashing almost immediately, his breathing slowing down and finally evening out before long. 

 

This had calmed John. 

 

He had hope as long as he was able to help Sherlock in some small way. 

 

But as much as he hoped and wished, it wasn't working anymore.  

 

It hadn't worked for a few hours now and John was beginning to lose hope that it ever would.  

 

A few salty tears streaked down his cheeks as he continued to restrain the convulsing detective.   

………

"You really have this down. I'm impressed," Moriarty drawled.  

 

Sherlock breathed heavily. 

 

 "But Sebastian is disappointed that he didn't at least get one scream from you. It's the first thing on his day planner you know…" He smiled, amused. "And if he doesn't reach his quota, you wouldn't believe how dull and depressing he is, honestly!" 

 

 "Ah, so a bit like you then," Sherlock said simply, unimpressed. 

 

The smile was gone from Moriarty's lips in a cold instant, his face a vacant mask exposed only with the look of fury in his eyes that were a few inches from his own within seconds. His hands were there- squeezing- mercilessly and Sherlock whimpered at the crushing strength digging into his windpipe.  

 

"You know, I had hoped to prologue this, but your snide comments are getting on my last nerve," Moriarty deadpanned. 

 

Snide comments. That's when Sherlock remembered his small reserve of blood that he had kept safely tucked away in his cheek, though it was much smaller now from the recent abuse. 

 

"What the hell!" 

 

"Do you know how expensive these shoes are?" Moriarty back-handed him and moved hastily towards the door, his footfalls echoing off the concrete. "He's all yours."  

 

Sebastian nodded to his boss, as he left through the door, slamming it shut to cause a metallic clang that rang out through the entire room.  

 

Sherlock recovered quickly and gave the replacement a once over. The man was at least 6' 4,' an excellent marksman, had no known criminal record; a common feature in all Moriarty's hitmen. His hands were steady upon his AK47, the muscles well worked and strengthened from years of use only matched by his arms which held the same control and strength. His neck was like a wrestlers, boughed with a prominent vein running down to his chest that popped when he turned his head. His strong jawline and pallor complexion stood out against his dark green eyes and blonde hair. 

 

Sherlock almost laughed out loud when he realized the truth. Despite a few  alterations, this man almost looked like John.  

 

 _"We're just alike, you and I..."_  

 

Moriarty had been partially right. They were just alike in their choice of partners, apparently.   

 

A deceptive voice broke him away from his train of thought. "See anything you like?"  

 

Sherlock smirked. "Not in the slightest." This man was never John and could never be John. 

 

The man merely simpered darkly in return and walked forward. "Have you figured out, or should I say, deduced where we are yet?"  

 

"Ah, you have I can see it in your eyes. Well go on, tell me," he challenged, his voice hinting to the alternative. 

 

Well, it was better than the alternative. "You passed several streets on the way here, mostly shops and stations, but I detected a whiff of ash with a hint of Dioxin, a known human carcinogen and the most potent synthetic carcinogen used in melting plastic. The aroma became noticeable as we neared the half hour mark, meaning we were near the old factory now used for melting plastics, between Richmond and Chertsey. The last detail I noticed was the clang of a bell to a specific Chinese restaurant. The only Chinese restaurant which recently had it's clapper replaced. 

 

"What? You couldn't possibly know that," Sebastian scoffed. 

 

"I'm informed about any repairs or changes in all the restaurants, though in this particular time I have the good fortune of having assisted in the repairs myself, so I chose the type of metal for the clapper." 

 

"You are very good. I can see why my boss is so drawn to you." He continued. "But you didn't mention where you are." 

 

"I'm most likely in an interrogation room. I counted 150 steps on the way here, though the direction changed several times and I was turned 360 degrees several times throughout, which was only meant to confuse me and throw me off my calculations. But as you did so, I was  able to build a near perfect replica of this section of the building by striking my foot against the corners and walls in which the architecture exactly resembled, The Latchmere House. I made a point of memorizing the layout of every facility, prison, warehouse etc, in case I was ever put in this position." 

 

"Well, then you know what comes next don't you." 

 

Yes.  

 

Sherlock flinched as Moran's face and body morphed into John's.  

 

Why was it always John? Perhaps his mind was reverting back to the one person he had wronged to such a high degree. It could be guilt for his two year absence and the realization that a catatonic husk devoid of his conscious presence was the only thing John had at that moment to hold onto. 

 

It was strange.  

 

At one point during the torture, he thought he heard John whispering words of encouragement and endearment to him, and while it helped to ease the pain some, he supposed it was just another hallucination. This was all one hallucination after the other, stealing the most painful memories of his mind to create his own personal nightmare which even he couldn't escape from. 

 

Yes, he knew what came next.  

 

Mental agony. 

 

"Sherlock I can't believe you did this to me, left me alone and grieving for so many years when you were off galavanting abroad somewhere dislodging Moriarty's network." John padded forward. "You know, I often thought that you had feelings for Moriarty. …. That's what I thought that day at the pool. You were so obviously flirting with each other it made me sick," John spat. 

 

"No, I was just playing along. I wanted him to think I was flirting with him so I could trip him up. It was all a part of the plan."  

 

John scoffed. "Plan! I had a bomb strapped to my chest and you could've cared less." 

 

"What are you talking about, I tore the vest off you as soon as I could!" Sherlock retorted, his voice cracking slightly at the end, emotions threatening to consume him. He couldn't be this; this feeling machine. He was better off just being the machine, the cold, rude, insensitive calculating  machine- The freak.  

 

A scoff from John brought his active awareness back  

 

"No. We both know you did that for your own selfish ends. You knew he would be watching and you wanted him to see how fast you could disarm it. You wanted to show off and you didn't care who's life was on the line as long as you got that rush that you crave so much." 

 

Sherlock's eyes went wide. No, it was all wrong. It was always to save John. When Moriarty entered that room, his priority was to protect John. Always John.  

 

"Yes, that's right. He gave you a puzzle which you just jumped into action for. You love to...." John Morphed into Moriarty once again, between sentences. "Dance for me." 

 

Sherlock cringed as he felt the Irishman's warm breath on his neck.  John, hurry.... 

 

"I love to watch you dance," Moriarty breathed, causing an uncontrollable shiver to wrack Sherlock's body.  

 

The detective knew Moriarty saw it as he felt the criminal grinning against his skin. 

 

"Oh, I like this. The unfeeling machine isn't so unfeeling in the end. He just needs a small nudge..... Whoops!"  

 

Sherlock cried out as he hit the floor with the entire right side of his body, his shoulder pinned excruciatingly under the chair.  

….................................................................................................................................... 

 

John, Molly's here with the antidote." 

 

The army doctor quickly dried his eyes and peered down at the still, unmoving detective on the bed. He had stopped thrashing 20 minutes ago and was now resting peacefully, at least John hopped that was the case. He couldn't even think of the word right now. 

 

"Coming!" John shouted, his voice tight with unshed tears. 

 

Molly was standing near the landlady, a sad expression on her face as she held the small silver case in her hand. 

 

"Oh, John, hi. I brought the antidote, but it's extremely sensitive to direct sunlight. Are all the drapes closed in his room?" Molly inquired. 

 

"Yeah, course. This way." 

 

John warned the landlady that she may not want to stick around for this part, but she insisted that she wanted to be downstairs making tea like she always did. The matter was decided by Molly calling him up the stairs and leading the doctor into the bedroom. 

 

The atmosphere was automatically tense when they stepped in, but Molly, being the good friend that she was, assured him of the competency of the substance she was carrying in a small silver box, a substance, which John couldn't help but initially distrust at first as he saw it floating around in the glass. This small goo in the syringe was what he would have to put his faith in now. But what if it was flawed or an ingredient was missing and did more harm than good? What if it.. killed Sherlock. 

 

"John." 

 

The army doctor looked over at the feminine hand on his arm holding the syringe.  

 

John didn't want to hear her optimism sprinkled with hope and love right then. It didn't make sense to hope when the odds were so low and success was so dire. It just didn't. The only thing he wanted to do was to be numb right now. To be numb and administer the injection so that way if it didn't work out, he wouldn't have the high hopes and optimism and love to be smashed, but instead, the news- whatever it consisted of- would be blunted and pass through him without damaging him as greatly.  

 

Now he sounded like Sherlock's, 'Caring isn't an advantage,' speech. But in one way, it was true. If he hadn't cared about the man in the first place, the awful butterflies in his stomach would be almost non existent. Of course, they would have never bonded like they did and have the memories of running through London, solving cases, being chased by serial killers, and all the laughs and hearty jokes afterward as they fought to catch their breath 

 

Who knows, if John hadn't of been there when the cabbie was coaxing the detective to swallow the poisoned pill in a bottle, maybe the stupid idiot would've just swallowed the bloody thing and London would have lost the greatest detective that day.  

 

John didn't know for sure if things would have run a different course in his actions had been different, but he damn well had control of what he was going to do with this choice. 

 

"Doctor?" 

 

John straightened upon hearing Molly use his professional title to get his attention, but it also reminded him of his first role and vow he took before all the others. He was a doctor first and foremost and he had a patient in need of care. "Yes, I'm fine, Molly. "Let's go save Sherlock's ass again," John smiled sadly to Molly and turned his attention to Sherlock. 

 

Taking a deep breathe, John administered the antidote without hesitation, and stood back to witness whatever effects it would bring. And a few minutes later it had brought one; though it wasn't the kind they were hoping for. 

 

John was cradling Sherlock in his arms, whispering comforts as he carded a hand through his damp hair as the detective groaned. He was apparently experiencing another such terror, though it seemed like he was able to handle this one much better than before. 

 

Molly looked at them with a grieving expression, which John caught and offered her a seat on the bed. 

 

"No, actually you know what I think I left my oven on. Just tell me if there's any changes, Molly replied hurriedly, nervously ringing her hands and not meeting his eyes when she spoke. Grief, John thought. Maybe fear as well. 

 

Yes, I'll report back to you if there's any changes. 

 

"Thank you." John heard the click of the Pathologist's heels getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared. 

 

It was a slightly odd reaction, but still an understandable one. John was also scared of what was going to happen next, but he had to stay strong to prevent himself from reverting to the sobbing man by Sherlock's bedside wallowing in grief; he couldn't be that man again, not now. 

 

John flinched back to the precious body lying in his arms. Sherlock was arching his back and clenching his fists till they practically turned blue. This was torture. Sherlock was being tortured again.  

 

John was about to whisper in his ear again, when an unexpected scream ripped through the air, shattering a large portion of John's heart that he nearly wept into Sherlock's shoulder before catching himself, stilling as he thought of an idea. John had been trained in withstanding many types of physical as well as mental abuse. He could be the voice of reason beyond the chaos and now he could help Sherlock though whatever pain he was experiencing. 

 

John was about to kick himself for not realizing it sooner, but then Sherlock whimpered  and it was the most vulnerable sound John had ever heard the detective produce, ever. 

 

 John went in. 

* * *

 

Sherlock grunted as he felt another rib crack under the weight on top of him. He was too numb now to care. Perhaps it took him actually dying to escape this prison. 

 

"Maybe you'll think twice about ruining my shoes next time," Moriarty spoke pointedly, pressing the heel of his foot into his abdomen.  

 

The detective steeled himself and closed his eyes, mostly because of pain, but also because he didn't want to look into the psychotic face of Moriarty who was smiling, disturbed down at him.  

 

"Sherlock." 

 

The voice. A sense of familiarity. Strength. Love....John.  

 

Of course John would be able to get through the mental barriers, Sherlock thought with a smile as he opened his eyes to find John materialized in front of Moriarty, his eyes narrowed in determination as he beheld his friend. 

 

"Sherlock are you alright?" 

 

"I've been better, John," Sherlock replied. He was fully aware that John couldn't hear him, but at the same time he wanted to feel as close to Johns's voice as he could; he wanted to wrap himself up in that voice and tune out everything else. He heard John pause before continuing. 

 

Listen, I gave you an injection that's supposed to help you through this, but it might take time before you can escape. In the mean time, I want you to keep fighting and use those SERE techniques I taught you. if you haven't already.... I don't know if you deleted them or not because I'm not in your Mind Palace, so yeah.... 

 

Sherlock recognized the love, as well as heart-breaking sadness filling his words. This had been too hard on both of them. 

 

Anyway, I love you, and I hope you.... make it back. 

 

Sherlock rejoiced as John stuttered. Since the beginning of their conversation, he had been trying to tap into his body to send John a message and now that the antidote was beginning to work, he could do just that, going by the sounds of crumpling paper and pencil pressure that were reaching his ears. 

 

"This is fantastic! You can hear me!" John exclaimed.  

 

"I have been hearing you … your whispers. Thank you, John, sincerely." 

 

"It was all I could do. I'm glad you heard me." 

 

Sherlock smiled and fixed his eyes on him, smelling a hint of the honey break through the barriers, calming him. 

 

"I suppose you'll be making your escape now?" 

 

"Yes." 

 

Sherlock nodded weakly to the fading John and reached out to hold his hand before he briefly disappeared. "I'll be seeing you soon." 

 

"I'm holding you to that," was the last word between them before everything started to fuzz and Sherlock felt his restraints loosening. 

 

Moriarty smirked knowingly. "That little antidote of yours won't stop what's coming." 

 

Sherlock smirked and kicked him in the crotch. 

 

Moriarty toppled to his knees, cupping his crotch, his face pinched with pain as Sherlock wriggled out of his restraints and sprang to his feet, heading for the door which opened easily to a maze of corridors. Thankfully Sherlock knew every inch of the place and it didn't take him long to reach the outside. 

 

 An artificial wind blew through his hair and coat, causing it to billow as he stood at the street corner, calculating his next move. A bus stopped in front of him. Sherlock read the title written in white letters: Reichenbach Tour Bus with small letters in gold ink underneath. See the Falls.  

 

Sherlock contemplated the meaning for a few seconds before running off down the street and got inside the nearest cab. He had to go back to the place where it all began. "Bart's" 

 

The cab stopped abruptly, violently jolting the detective forward. "Where did you learn to drive?" 

 

After receiving no answer, Sherlock bent forward and saw the cabbie's reflection in the mirror. He was dead. Not only that, but at the angle the cab was tilting, he was slowly sinking into the ground. 

 

Sherlock kicked the door open for it to dishearteningly smash into the concrete. There was only a foot of space between the pavement and the door. "Too small to fit through," Sherlock muttered dryly.  

 

The cab was sinking faster and faster into the ground, and Sherlock decided to wait for an approximate level of depth before jumping out, deducing that a crack spider webbing into the concrete would burst after he reached the two foot mark, freeing the door to swing out wide enough to allow him a jump to safety.  

 

The one thing he couldn't gauge, however, was the integrity of the area he was going to grasp onto. There were no cracks, but the entire surface was losing pieces of itself. But when it came down to it, it was either stay in the cab and die, or jump blindly and hope the unstable concrete could hold his weight.  

 

Seeing his chance, Sherlock threw his weight upward and jumped from the cab, just barely grasping onto the chipped concrete of the chasm as the cab plummeted down to the 30 foot jagged bottom below. He officially hated hallucinations.  

 

The detective grunted as he hoisted himself up, praying that his movements weren't going to send him crashing down the 30 foot abyss. Thankfully though, he managed to get to his feet without a mishap.  

 

It appeared like the entire generated world was falling apart. The sky had geometrical cracks that shimmered along it’s edges as they pulsed. The trees were changing shape the leaves becoming sharp and then faded out to nothing but green streaks attached to the branches and twigs; the trunk becoming dull and fuzzy underneath. Then there was the buildings- the colors were merging and seemed to be melting like candle wax onto the pavement, the structures turning to mush around him.  

 

Wait... The buildings.. Bart's. If he didn’t arrive before it turned to mush, there wasn't any known hope of getting home. Sherlock gauged the distance to be within his running limits and took off towards Bart's, dodging sinkholes, what he would call building goop, and.... apparently falling trees- aimed right at him.  

 

Sherlock ducked and rolled out of the way of a falling tree as it narrowly missed him, smashing down close beside him. Letting out a huff, he rose to his feet and continued running until he got to the building. 

 

It was already starting to melt. He didn't have much time to reach the top, Sherlock thought hastily, as he ran into the building, passing empty hallways until he ran into a janitor... no, Moriarty.  

 

Sherlock shrugged as the figure dropped the mop he had been previously using on the floor from the looks of it, and his dark shades; only keeping his white earbuds in his ears, swaying his head psychotically in a certain rhythm, his eyes closed. Music. Jim was listening to music. 

 

"You'll never reach the end," Moriarty drawled. 

 

Sherlock ignored him and continued past to a metal door that read, Roof Entrance, but unfortunately, his legs were stuck to the carpet upon arriving. No. The carpet was melting along with the rest of the building, and there was heat. It was starting to burn through his pant legs the longer he stayed there. 

 

It appears you've gotten yourself into a sticky situation there. Hm.. Looks like you won't be going home after all.  

 

Moriarty jumped into the air with glee. "We're going to have such fun together!" He beamed. 

 

Sherlock winced as the wax like substance stuck onto his skin. He had to think of an escape route fast, before his legs got 3rd degree burns.  

 

There was no possibility of using his legs, so whatever his plan was, has to involve a stationary escape. Or did it? Sherlock closed his eyes, trying not to concentrate on his steering flesh... or the smell. Sherlock added mentally, giving himself a narrow time frame of 30 seconds to deduce an escape route before his skin melted off.  

 

Moriarty leaned over and whispered in his ear. "If you don't find a way out of this soon, you're going to be too cooked to party."  

 

Sherlock pressed his hands to his temple, squeezing his eyes shut. The pain. No, the door, focus on the door. Yes, it had been required to open before, so Sherlock to step through, but what the answer lied in something so trivial as merely opening the door?  

 

Sherlock fell forward, biting back a scream from the raw flesh as he hit the ground, nudging the door open with the palm of his hand.  

 

Everything went black. 

 

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, searching his surroundings. He was in his room, poster and microscope and all, but he wasn't going to believe he was home just yet as this had been the layout of the previous hallucinations. "John?" 

 

"I'll leave you two alone." Mrs. Hudson walked out of his room, and closes the door behind her with a soft click. 

 

Sherlock turned his head to find John tossing his gun away speedily. Gun. No this couldn't be happening again. He just had to be home... he had...  

 

A few tears fell down his cheeks and Sherlock curled into himself. 

 

Oh, Sherlock, thank heavens you're back, John spoke in a low tone. "I'm here, what is it?" John asked, his voice soothing as he slides his hand into Sherlock's... 

 

Sherlock flinched away from the contact. "I'm sorry I left you, I... don't hurt me," the detective mumbled, lightly sobbing. 

 

John saw the streaks of tears as the lighting changed from Sherlock's movements and immediately, his own composure was threatening to break, hanging on by a thread. "Sherlock, I'm sorry I punched you that night, but I would never truly want to hurt you, although I do admit you have a tendency to drive me up the wall," John smiled reassuringly, hoping that his words helped and hadn't cracked from the power of his overflowing emotions at that moment.  

 

Please! Leave me alone.  

 

John frowned at this response and was about to retort before he saw a look of absolute terror and crushing defeat on Sherlock that made a tear roll down his face.  

 

"Alright. If that's what you need me to do." John sighed and was about to leave the room before stopping at the last second. I want to say something first though. I will always be there for you, and it will be impossible for you to pull another stunt like the one on the roof, without at least taking me with you. And also, this has been the hardest day that I've had in a long time so I'm incredibly grateful you're back... I'll leave now, but I'm not gonna go far in case you need anything." 

 

"Wait..." 

 

John turned around to find Sherlock examining him skeptically from across the room.  

 

"Do you really mean all that you said?" 

 

"Yes of course, why wouldn't I?" John replied, sincerely. 

 

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Come closer." Perhaps he hadn't been paying attention before. 

 

John looked confused, but proceeded to obey orders, watching his flatmate's fearful expressions as he neared him. 

 

Sherlock sniffed all around him, which came as an amusing surprise to John, though he didn’t show it. Once Sherlock was finished, John's fast reflexes caught Sherlock's fist in mid air before it had a chance to hit him. 

 

"What was the point is this little exercise of yours? You know that I'm an expert in combative techniques. Are you angry with me?" John spoke tightly, shifting his weight momentarily. 

 

This was John. The strong yet insecure army doctor who was going to sacrifice his own desires because Sherlock had told him to leave. The John who had stayed with him and reached out when he was in need. Those words, could have only come from the John he knew. His smile, one that would never want to hurt him. One who cared. The detective jolted up in bed exuberantly. "John it's you!" 

 

"Of course it's me, who else could it be?" The army doctor furrowed his brows and eyed the detective curiously. 

 

John saw another tear streak down the detective's cheek. Sherlock desperately clutched onto his hand. "Don't leave me John!" 

 

Seeing his distress, the army doctor pulled back the covers and climbed into bed beside him. Now he understood. Sherlock had been through so many hallucinations that he couldn't discern the real from the unreal anymore. John didn't know what angered him more, the fact that Sherlock was this broken, or that his persona was used to inflict such terror on him. 

 

 "Don't worry Sherlock, I'm not going anywhere." John said, tenderly. 

 

The warm, comforting presence of the army doctor beside him, made Sherlock feel safe and he instinctively curled into the warmth. He was finally _home._ John tenderly wrapped his arms around the detective's body...  

 

Sherlock knew his brave, loving army doctor would protect him. John would always protect him. Sherlock let these thoughts comfort him as he drifted off to a mercifully dreamless sleep.  

* * *

A/N: Alright, so freaky! I'm glad Sherlock's finally out of there. I plan for a sequel to continue where this left off, including Sherlock's recovery from all the torture. what is your opinion? Would it be something that you'd like to read? Also, feel free to review:) I'd love to know what parts in this scared you or made you clutch your blanket from all the hurt/comfort ;) Knowing this information will help me formulate more like-moments in the Sequel. 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Alright, so freaky! I'm glad Sherlock's finally out of there. I plan for a sequel to continue where this left off, including Sherlock's recovery from all the torture. What is your opinion? Would it be something that you'd like to read? Also, feel free to review:) I'd love to know what parts in this scared you or made you clutch your blanket from all the hurt/comfort ;) Knowing this information will help me formulate more like-moments in the Sequel.


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